Page 11

Chapter 11

Olli

“Tell me everything.” Mom, as per usual, has a way of simultaneously being the most supportive and least helpful parent of all time. I would like to reiterate that I love my mother more than any other human on this entire planet, times a thousand or so. But the woman is not entirely grounded on said planet.

I suppose when you’re a world-renowned reclaimed materials sculptor and painter, you get to be a little flighty.

I punch the speakerphone button so I have access to both hands for easier cactus moisturization procedures. That’s cactus watering , in case you didn’t get that.

“Not much to tell,” I say, keeping my voice light, lest I give her any reason to suspect I’m being less than truthful. “I’ve only been here a week.”

I opt not to mention that just yesterday, another player announced he was transferring. Another one out, which means Coach’ll bring somebody else in. This really is a team of transients.

Is it the town, I wonder, or the team? And how long will sad little Olli make it if nobody else can stick it out through a whole season?

I swear that Bertha, my favorite moon cactus, glares at me, like why am I withholding the details from my own mother. But I can hear Mom painting—well, I can’t like, hear the paint or the brush. But I know what she sounds like when she’s painting: excited but distant, high energy, though it’s not directed at me. Focused, but won’t remember a thing I say.

It’s a vibe, really.

“Has the team been nice?” she asks, maybe forgetting elementary school was two dozen years ago. Painting, like I said. Got like a quarter of her brain on me, maybe.

“Yep.” This time Edward glares at me, and we host a silent argument no one will ever be privy to. I hope. When they lock me in the insane asylum though, maybe peeps will study this stuff.

You want me to tell her I accidentally kissed one of my co-workers? I ask Edward, silently of course, because even Mom would be worried if she heard me address a cactus as such.

Edward, for his part, doesn’t hesitate. Yes.

And that I can’t get him out of my head.

Yep.

Even though he’s—did I forget this—straight, and it means nothing?

Abso-fruitly.

You’re tripping.

Am I?

No, I am, because I’m arguing with a dragon fruit. And losing.

“And the coach,” Mom says, like I’m not entirely engaged in a separate and utterly unhinged conversation here. Not that she knows. I hope. That’d be a trip.

“Coach is good,” I say.

“And you’re still seeing Dr. Huxton on the Zoom?”

“It’s been a week,” I sigh. But then I add, “Yes, I have an appointment scheduled with him on Monday.”

“Good. He’s helped you so much.” She’s right; I’ve been with Dr. Huxley a long, long time. And a lot of other therapists before that. I’ve had therapy my whole life, really.

When your fatherless kid pendulums between being a pinball of energy and a sappy sadhouse of tears and fears, you put him in therapy, amiright? And hockey, ’cause ADHD .

“Sure,” I say. But I’m teetering on the edge of instead saying, Mom, I’m sad and lonely and I’m scared I’m gonna have another episode and I want to tell you about this guy .

She’d put her paintbrush down and her mom cap on and say, Aw, sweetie. Talk to me . And this “tell me everything” she would mean.

But the whole time, she’d be staring at her painting.

“Something wrong, Aspen?” Mom asks, and by the slightly concerned lilt in her voice, I can tell she’s dangerously close to putting down her brush to hunt out her mom cap.

I sigh. “No. The usual. Just a bit lonely.”

Tabitha glares with all the raging force and surprising venom of a true miniature saguaro. Yes, yes, sorry old gal. I do have you .

“You know I’m here if you want to talk.”

“I know. I love you too, Mom.”

“But also, why are you here, talking to me, when you should be out making friends, dancing the night away, grinding up on—”

“Yeah, it’s noon here.” I roll my eyes even though nobody but Tabitha, Bertha, and Edward can see me.

“Right. Yes. Of course. I forget about the time difference now that you’re not in Florida.”

“And I have to leave for a game shortly.”

“A game!” Mom actually sounds interested in that. In her usual distant Mom way. “Are you starting?”

“Nah, not this one.” I trace a finger along the rim of Tabitha’s pot. “I’m not technically on the active roster yet, so Coach has me sitting and observing.”

“Oh. Right.”

For some reason, that just makes my bones feel heavy. “I’m gonna go now, okay? But you call me tomorrow?”

“Of course I will.” She won’t.

I might, if the dark little cat scratching in the corner of my soul flexes its claws too deep. Maybe it won’t come to that. Or maybe those claws will cut too deep for even Mom to fix. “Love you, Mom. ”

“Love you, Aspen.”

The words trail after me long after I hang up. Love you, Aspen.

There are so many aspens here , I think, and I wish I’d told her that. So many things I wish I could say—to her, to others. I should love this place, Mom , I want to say. I should be the version of myself that would love this place, its aspens, its trails and trees. The version of myself that she loves, that she sees and still thinks I am in spite of everything.

I wish I could still be your innocent little Aspen.

She’s right, though. I shouldn’t be here, alone, in my house. I’m twenty-nine, single, cute, financially stable . . . I should be out flashing my grin, making new friends, finding a hiking group, or texting my teammates to see what they’re up to.

But that’s never been my style. I’ve always been a loner. Ready with a quick, easy smile, casual jokes, a laugh. But it’s like there’s nothing to back it up inside—I’m empty, hollow, blank.

Like a jack-o’-lantern scooped clean to better showcase its smile.